


What Real Men Do.

by l0vebuzz



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A plus parenting, M/M, Toxic Masculinity, internalised omophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24897439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l0vebuzz/pseuds/l0vebuzz
Summary: Dean can finally live a domestic life, but his mind hasn't caught on, constantly alert.He wants to move on but how can he do that if chaos and danger is all he's ever known?John's ghost haunts Dean's head:Amidst the trauma and nightmares, he has a hard time letting Castiel support him and love him.Castiel, though, can see through him better than anyone else,and maybe can show him how to be himself unapologetically.(My own "happy"- I have low standards- finale so I can ignore what's coming, maybe?)
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 56
Collections: Dean/Cas Summer Bucket-List Bingo 2020





	What Real Men Do.

**Author's Note:**

> This could very well be some time after the finale (cough...cough, a finale where, you know, our hearts don't get crushed into smitheerens) (well, I mean... this really ain't peachy tbh.)
> 
> I am participating to the Dean/Cas Summer Bucket List Bingo from the IG page destiel.fanfiction (thank you @allmystars_i for sharing it with me) , and the word I used is 'Alcohol'. 
> 
> A special thanks to @cherryblossom08 (@alexa_belle24 on twitter) for accepting to beta-read and giving a lot of insightful suggestions.
> 
> Also thank you to all those who read it, left me prompts or supported me. (Shout out chaotic socknatural gc!)  
> @douxdestiel @cxastielsbee @jaquesadit118 @jenmishbitch @dumbwinchester and many others,  
> I appreciate you all.
> 
> Without further to do...

**What Real Men Do**

His fingers shake inconsistently as the hot water flushes through them.

His grip tightens, for a second, as his nostrils widen at the heightened feeling of wet sponge against the skin. A plate falls against the cold and watery surface on which residual food gathers, the sponge follows.

He turns the tap off. Dries his hands against his torn jeans, in an attempt to make the wet and feverish sensation go away.

-What’s up? - he keeps from jumping as big warm arms enclose him within their grip.

Castiel’s chin now rests on his shoulder. Dean can see in his peripheral vision, after slightly turning his head towards him, that Cas is observing him with a pensive stare.

-Nothing. – he softly presses on Cas’s hand that rests on his right hip, and moves away gently.

He stares at the stacks of plates waiting to be cleaned, and bites on his lower lip as an agglomerate of agitation stirs at the base of his stomach. He does not feel like washing the dishes. As a matter of fact, he barely feels like breathing.

Dean often feels like something awful is about to happen. Expecting an incoming catastrophe is the standard mode for his brain. And worst of all, Cas can always see through his tough façade.

Castiel always realises the rigidity of his body from the subtle shift in the way Dean holds himself, or when his stomach burns from the anxiety. Castiel always knows when hugging him is going to help or just make it worse. That’s why Cas is probably confused by now, eyebrows furrowed and busy guilting himself for hugging him at the wrong moment.

It’s not Castiel’s fault. Dean wishes he could say it, but he knows that his voice would betray him and notify Castiel just how much Dean is upset right now.

He hasn’t been sleeping well, which isn’t exactly anything new but, maybe this time it is worse than usual. The passing of days blends within a confusion, a fog of the mind, a mind that feels lost and unreachable, too busy fighting itself.

Never really awake, never really asleep. People think that being an insomniac simply signifies a consistent inability to fall asleep. Dean knows very well it is not just about falling asleep but, also, about staying asleep. And it’s not just for the nightmares, vivid renditions of his worst memories most often, but his psyche’s struggle with staying in touch with his own subconscious. Maybe it is just too tiring. Dean always realizes mid-way through falling asleep that his thoughts are gradually becoming less sensical, and snaps out of it. Probably grabbing the imaginary gun under his pillow and pointing it at the air. Eyes widened, furious heartbeat, panting. He realises he does not keep a gun under his pillow anymore, that there is no malicious killer in front of him, and that he probably screamed, because Cas, next to him, is staring with concern.

-Dean, – the grave voice grounds him from his troubling thoughts. – don’t worry about the dishes, just try and rest a bit, ok?

Dean cannot help but roll his eyes. He would like to snap and tell Cas that there’s no point, but he doesn’t do it. He sighs, instead.

-I’m sorry. – he says without looking at him.

-Why?

He won’t respond. He cannot respond. Dean does not know how to express how much of a burden he feels he is for Castiel.

-Dean. - Castiel’s tone is starting to venture into authoritative by now.

-Cas. - he passes his tongue on his lower lips, it feels so dry and for the first time in a while meets Castiel’s sapphire eyes.

-I am not exactly acquainted with mind reading techniques, - He stops for a moment, a faint smile appears on his face. - although I might have read a book or two on the subject.

Dean smirks, and it hurts. It hurts because beneath the mask, time passes much slower than in real life. Stuck in his throat are ugly sobs, begging to be heard.

He walks over to the wooden cabinet, turns the key to the left and with his right hand grabs the Jack Daniel’s.

He does not bother getting a glass, though he is aware that will piss Castiel off. Maybe he wants Castiel to be pissed off, he is not sure. In his head, he sees himself as a monstrous and repulsive individual. The ripple effect of his appalling self-image is that the way Castiel treats him makes him mad.

He hates himself, so why would someone love him?

That is another thing that, lately, has been getting worse. Dean’s lust has always been bordering into sex addiction; he convenes as he gulps down as much whiskey as he possibly can without propelling Castiel to physically stop him. Sex was not just awesome and the fact that he was good at it also made him feel better about himself, but it was also his main coping mechanism. Unlike alcohol, he could lie and tell himself it was kind of healthy.

But now, every time he is sharing an intimate moment with Castiel, he feels sickening. Predatory. Shameful.

Sometimes he will pause mid-way, his chest visibly moving up and down. ‘Are you ok?’ Castiel will ask, Dean will nod and attempt to keep going as Cas will block him and say ‘We can stop.’, but Dean cannot allow that, so he will insist and try to make his lover happy.

Dean stares at the newspaper on the low glass table as he sits down on the couch. Castiel’s voice is in the background of his thoughts. He has not registered a word he has said in a while. Twenty – fourth of January, he thinks, as the ever familiar feeling of collapsing without plummeting welcomes him back, his head so light that it could gravitate towards the ceiling. He hates his birthday. That is just one more thing that reminds him of John, and how he would even be denied a stroke of the cheek or soothing words.

John, that shouted when he would see Dean cry. John, that constantly prided himself to remind him of ‘what a real man is supposed to do’.

But Dean still doesn't know. What does a real man do?

Because John taught him that a real man gives up his seat for a woman, can change a car battery or a tire and light a barbecue, but Castiel does none of those things.

Dean stares at the bottle, still in his hand. Even the alcohol is an acquired taste from his father. Dean worshipped John, no matter how much John seemed to show that there was nothing ever good enough about Dean. Dean made it his mission to become that perfect soldier, and his naïve child mind just naturally associated his father’s ‘alcoholism’ as one fundamental aspect in the 'How to be a Real Man' John Winchester rule book.

Castiel enjoys a drink, but he’s not scared of the pink ones with a cute little umbrella. Castiel knows nothing about cars and told him that he refuses to assume a woman to be weaker than him, although he will indeed give up the seat- he admitted- if she is elderly or otherwise impaired, but couldn’t that be anyone?

He also paints his nails sometimes, reads cheap romantic suspense novels and, most of all, is never ashamed of crying. 

He probably would have thought otherwise a few years back but Dean has the utmost regard for Castiel, and he believes him to be a much more ‘real’ and well-rounded man than his father ever was.

But Dean cannot let go of that voice, the same that would boss him around at the shooting range, and is torn between his past self and that idealised image of happiness he so desperately is trying to catch, as it fades before his eyes.

-Please…- he chokes on the word and clears his throat as he acknowledges that Cas is now sitting next to him. A single wet tear runs down his face, as he feels his eyes start getting more watery.- Teach me.

-Yes.- Castiel murmurs unsure, tilting his head so slightly as he stares in confusion.

Dean’s lips curve into a smile as they witness the familiar movement.

-Teach you… what?

Dean’s hand reaches for Castiel’s, their fingers intertwine, Dean holds on for dear life, as the soft skin around the rough one soothes his aching heartbeat.

Dean observes the pale pink lips and gets closer, shaking away the voices that remind him he feels filthy. He presses his lips against them as he closes his eyes and more tears fall down. What would John say if he saw him? If he knew?

-Teach me what real men do.


End file.
